Peter Cherches

A Man With Two Mustaches

 

There once was a man who had two mustaches. One was in the normal place, between his nose and his mouth, but the other one was inside his body, on his large intestine. He decided to grow the second mustache to distinguish himself from every other man with a mustache. He had grown the first mustache to distinguish himself from men without mustaches, but after he had grown it he started noticing just how many men in the world wore mustaches. He hardly felt distinguished at all. I’ll out-mustache all of them, he decided, and that’s when he grew the second one. He decided it would be on an internal organ since, he figured, a prominent mustache on a visible part of his body other than the usual mustache place would subject him to ceaseless ridicule.

 

He decided against the brain because he thought a mustache on his brain might make him crazy. He decided against a lung, because he figured if any of the hairs got into the lung he might have trouble breathing. He figured the heart wasn’t such a good idea either. He finally settled on the digestive tract. He ruled out the small intestine because there would only be room for a pencil mustache, and he didn’t like pencil mustaches. He narrowed the choices down to stomach and large intestine. He tossed a coin, and large intestine won (tails).

 

The mustache on the large intestine turned out to be a costly proposition, as every time he wanted to have this second mustache trimmed he needed abdominal surgery. Even worse, however, was the fact that nobody ever took notice of his second mustache, and consequently he was really no better off than all those men with single, conventional mustaches.

 

He eventually came up with what he thought was a brilliant solution, but for some reason strangers always refused to look at his X-rays. Frustrated, he shaved off his first mustache, the one between his nose and his mouth. He still had the mustache on his large intestine, but now it didn’t matter any more.

 

 

Peter Cherches' new short prose collection, Lift Your Right Arm, available now!

 

 

 

Art Lasky

Ex-Fairy God Person

 

“What are you staring at? - Oh, my wings? I’m a fairy of course I have wings. Now why don’t you get back to your drink, and let me get back to mine. …  Wait a minute, let me buy you a drink my curious friend; I’ll tell you how my plans failed, and I came to be drinking in this low-life, dive bar; no offence intended. “

 

My first try; and I still argue a successful one: On a typical North Sea morning, late summer, late 8^th century (AD); a dragon ship slides thru the early morning mist. With a rasp, and a dull thud, it grounds on the sandy eastern shore of Lindisfarne Island. The dragon ship is not a monster, the thirty-eight-man Viking crew on the other hand… Gentle splashes are heard as the reavers slip into the water and quietly drag the vessel onto the beach, above the high tide mark. Quietly, for surprise is their friend, with barely a clink of metal, the crew readies their weapons; and race inland, thru the mist. 

 

The farming village is already awake; but, the first warning of their peril, is the pain filled death cry of Albie the fisherman, who’d been heading down to the beach to begin his days’ pursuits. The spear that tore thru his gut is a lucky shot; well, lucky for Lars son of Leif, anyway. Doors begin to open, as villagers, armed with makeshift weapons, rush to defend their homes, and families. Hopeless, let me describe it as hopeless; leave it at that, if you don’t mind. The village dies, save for a few prisoners, who will make useful slaves. Two Vikings die, one of them Wulf son of Snori, is at the center of my story.

 

Wulf, tall, blond, handsome, muscular, basically a better built Dolph Lundgren; a Viking prince to boot.  Wielding a 30pound battle axe, as easily as you’d handle a Ping-Pong paddle, Wulf breaks down the door of the largest building in the village (three whole rooms); and comes face to face with Boudicca; she shares center stage with him.  She’s blonde, and just a bit too strapping to be called classically beautiful. Boudicca smiles invitingly; Wulf drops his axe, and moves forward to reap one of the more physical rewards of raiding.  He enfolds her with his powerful arms; and she, smiling sweetly, drives a dagger up under his rib cage. Mortally wounded, the powerful Wulf still manages to snap her neck; they die in each other’s arms. Now there, right there, is my point; they died: in each other’s arms. Do you see what I mean? Case closed.

 

You don’t get my point? Okay; let me back up, and go slowly, we are both a bit snoggered, and you, my new friend, are a few straws short of a stack, in the IQ department, to begin with. No insult intended, of course. We all can’t be steak knives; the world needs butter knives too. Calm down, and have another drink as I explain why I’ve been suspended, with pay, pending review and reassignment by officials of the Seelie court.

 

My future used to be so bright, filled with hope and promise. I’d scored quite well on the S.A.T.’s (Seelie Aptitude Test); almost well enough to become a Champion of the Court, if only my martial abilities had been a little higher.  I also scored well on manipulation of matter, right down to the sub-atomic level, what brighter humans call quantum physics, and you, my cerebrally challenged companion call magic. Had I not been great with magic, I’d have ended up a tooth fairy, uggh! Boring, repetitive and so unsanitary; exchanging teeth for money. Don’t even know what they do with all those teeth. But… I digress.

 

So, I end up being hired as a Fairy God Person. Hmm? What’s that…? No, God Person, do I look like someone’s mother? I pee standing up; well actually, I would pee standing up if fairies peed. No, not father either; it’s actually a rather impersonal job. All in all it’s a good job, tenure, great benefits; medical, dental, just 20 centuries and out with a sweet pension. No, the job is not at all like Hans friggin’ Christian friggin’ Anderson would have you think. Would it have hurt him to do a little serious research?  Jeez!  He goes wandering from town to town asking the village idiots for fairy stories; I’m sure he spoke to your great-grandfather.  He slaps that collection of drivel into a book; becomes a goddamn best seller, no less!  Gimmee a break! Right, I’m digressing again.

 

My job is to get two souls together. The boss has a list of souls that are destined to meet their mate. Why? Beats me; way above my pay grade. Anyway she assigns some to me, and expects that I’ll wrap the whole thing up in an afternoon. How hard can it be? Management just thinks you need a twist of fate (wink, wink) here, an incredible coincidence (nudge, nudge) there, a sudden rain storm, and bippity, boppity boo! They’re sharing an umbrella. Hah, it ain’t that easy, not by a long shot.  Granted there is a mild innate attraction between the chosen souls. But you still have to get them in the same place, same time, and same mood. If you can get them close, over a long enough period of time, things usually work out; but, as you saw with Boudica and Wulf, proximity alone doesn’t work as well as one could hope.  

 

Now, here comes the tricky part, if they don’t hook up in this life time, I’ve got to get them together in the next, or the next…see where I’m going with this? And do you think they’re reborn in the same place or same year? Of course not; believe me it’s not so easy to get a 30 year old Mongolian Cobbler, together with a 12 year old Maasai herder in Tanzania.

 

 Even when it looks like a piece of cake, it isn’t. For example, one of my targets wouldn’t shut up about going to Paris; I let her win the lottery, figuring she’d go to Paris where her match is waiting. He doesn’t know that he’s waiting; but, in my book: waiting. Does she go to Paris? Of course not, it’s off to Las Vegas, where she meets a lounge singer. She falls for him; he falls for her money; where does that leave me? Up, you know which creek, no paddle in sight. Herding cats, it’s like herding a bunch of damn cats.

 

Yeah, I know, DIGRESSING AGAIN.  So, Wulf and Boudicca; I figure all done, Bobs’ your uncle, Miller time, it’s a wrap. I barely get back to the office, put my feet up on the desk and take a bite out of my morning bagel, when my boss, Tinkerbelle, transports me to her office. Yeah, she was my boss way before her fling with Peter Pan.

 

“Where the heck do you come off closing out the Wulf/Boudicca file?”

 

“I got them together just like it says in the rule book” say I.

Always the nitpicker, Tink replies

 

 “The rule book says loads about love, commitment, caring. It even mentions love at first sight; it doesn’t say a thing about mutual homicide at first sight.”

 

“Hold on, now. Pyramus and Thisbe died in each other’s arms; Wulf and Boudicca died in each other’s arms.” I say, “No difference; case closed.”

 

“I say you’re a moron” sneers Tink   “I’m giving you a millennium, and not one century more, to close this case properly. Oh, and by the way, you’re a little off on the Pyramus and Thisbe comparison, as well.”

 

There’s no reasoning with some people so it’s back to work, closing cases left and right.   Each time Wulf and Boudicca came around again, I tried I really tried.

 

The ninth century saw Wulf, his soul that is, in the body of an Anglo-Saxon bard Gawain of Hemmelpiffen. Boudicca was Gwendolyn, wife of Andryl a tribal chieftain in Kent.  I got them pretty close; just my luck, Wulf/Gawain was drawn and quartered when Andryl realized how close. 

 

Early tenth century:  Wulf is a household slave named Ka-ane, on Easter Island.  Boudicca is now Ikan a Mayan fisherman (souls are not gender specific).  Was it wrong for me to enter his dreams and convince him to paddle his canoe to Easter Island? How was I to know a human can’t paddle a canoe around Cape Horn?  My bad luck, again.

 

Eleventh century:  I was feeling lucky, I was feeling good, I was sure that this was the time I’d be writing ‘case closed’ across the front of the Wulf/ Boudicca file. The former Wulf was now Ahmad, a young Arab scholar in Jerusalem. He was shy, puny, and poor. I played with his embryonic DNA, to ensure the puny part. What’s embryonic DNA? Slip of the tongue pardon me, I meant to say magic; add to that an obsession with blonde, blue eyed women, I, uhm, magically implanted in his mind.  Suffice to say, he had no interest in the local ladies, and the feeling was mutual.

 

Boudicca was now, a noblewoman, Berwyn, blonde, blue eyed, and a bit touched in the head.  My bad, I might’ve slipped a little when I was creating a compulsion to nurture skinny Mediterranean types; so she heard voices occasionally, what’s the harm? The Crusades start, perfect timing; and talk about lemons to lemonade, I have the voices in her head tell her she better join up, and go to Jerusalem to convert the non-believers.

 

I had no idea converting heathens involved so much ironmongery, so many swords, and spears, and arrows, and armor? And what’s with the siege engines, and boiling oil, OH - MY - GOD! BOILING OIL!:  what is wrong with you people. There was very little converting, but loads of cutting, bleeding and death. Needless to say, Berwyn never even got close to Ahmad. My bad luck, yet again.

 

The 19^th century is winding down; I’m almost out of time. Wulf is Morning Bird, a young Navajo princess, living in the Arizona territory. Boudicca is nowhere to be found; not born yet. What choice did I have? Disguised as the most respected figure I could think of, President Grover Cleveland. I appear before the tribal council, riding a fiery chariot drawn by 4 flying horses. “Give me Morning Bird, she has been chosen by the gods to ascend to the heavens” I say.    The Indians were neither as superstitious, nor as respectful of the president as one would think.  I barely manage to grab Morning Bird and escape without injury. I put her into a deep sleep, and toss her into a space capsule, orbiting the earth at near light speed so she won’t age much. Piece of cake. Morning Bird will whizz around up there sleeping a couple decades; a century tops. When Boudicca is reborn all I have to do is guide him/her into a life of astrophysics, and adventure, have Boudicca invent space travel, discover my space capsule, fly up to it, slow it down, board it, wake the sleeping princess (with a kiss of course), maybe I play with their minds a little so they fall in love, and bingo-bango: HOME FREE!   What could be easier?

 

Halfway thru my plan I was called before a full board of inquiry. It seems the space capsule was disrupting tides, causing a few little earthquakes and destabilizing the Earth’s orbit.

 

They also had some complaints about my “unnecessary and overly provocative” appearance before the Navajo nation.  Screwing up the flow of time and the future of mankind might also have been mentioned.  If you ask me they’re petty jealous, nit picking, crybaby, cowards.  Not an ounce of vision in the lot of them. Once more, my bad luck.

 

So, here I am, found guilty of malpractice, by a pack of jealous vindictive fairies; did I mention my S.A.T.’s were so high I could have gone into the legal department. I would, no doubt, have risen far and fast. Then they wouldn’t be so quick to push me around. Alas, I chose another path, and now await the rest of my, no doubt, bitter fate.

 

“Bartender! One more round for me and my intellectually challenged companion.”

 

 

Arthur Lasky is an old guy who’s been writing in Assembler and COBOL for the last 30 years and decided to try writing in English, which, he found, is not as easy as it looks. He was born in Brooklyn and currently resides in Manhattan with his wifely muse and occasional visiting grandchildren.

 

 

 

Peter Wortsman

The Return of Little Red Riding Hood in a Red Convertible

 

The girl goes driving in a red coupe sedan—no, make it a red convertible—to visit her dear old grandmother. The wolf tries to hitch a ride on the highway where you’re not supposed to stop, and when he gets pushy she runs him right over. But the wolf, being resilient and conniving by nature, eats his way through the body of the car (a cheap import) and into the heart of Little Red Riding Hood. Now the wolf is squirming in the gut of the girl and she can’t get him out and there is no emergency medical service for miles—nor would they know what to do if there were one, never having delivered a young girl of an invasive wolf. But the beast won’t let her be. You’ll learn to live with me, he says. Like Hell I will! says the headstrong girl, who always carries a nail file in her purse and proceeds to cut him out, endangered species be damned. And scornful of speed limits, she makes it to granny’s with plenty of time to spare and whips up a tasty lunch of the leftovers. Granny gets indigestion and dies. Little Red inherits her pin cushion stuffed with precious stones and her automatic rocking chair, drives off distraught at break-neck speed into the sunset and dies in a car crash. The convertible is junked, later to be recycled in the form of a thousand cans of Portuguese sardines pulled off the shelves following a few reported fatal cases of botulism.

 

 

This tale originally appeared in my collection of eccentric short fiction "A Modern Way to Die" (Fromm Publishing International, NY 1991), now, alas, long out of print, and was reissued as an afterword in Peter's new translation of "Selected Tales of the Brothers Grimm" (Archipelago Books, 2013).